


The Gun

by ienablu



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e04 The End, F/M, Gen, the gun in four parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:15:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ienablu/pseuds/ienablu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After UNIT makes a working version of the Gun in Four Parts, Martha travels across America with Mickey and Tom looking for the Devil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London

**Author's Note:**

> Extended author notes can be found [here](http://hayes-district.dreamwidth.org/2515.html).

"Hello, Martha Jones."

Martha's been watching the news. She's been expecting Colonel Mace to call. "What do you need me to do?"

 

*

 

The call ends, and Martha spends a moment wondering if she can defeat the Devil. She supposes she could, but it might be easier if she didn't have to do it alone.

Martha dials the number that used to be her own, and holds her breath. The number rings once, twice, three times, four... and then after the agonizing five, six, seven and eight, she hears her own voice, saying hi, you've reached Martha's mobile, I can't reach the phone right now, but leave a message and I'll get right back to you, thanks! She lets out the breath in a short irritated huff, and the line beeps. She's pretty sure he knows how to activate voicemail, but there's a knot in her stomach, knowing he shouldn't have to, he promised he'd pick up the phone when she called -- he's done it before.

Aware that this is translating as a silence, she starts talking, quickly and hurried. "Doctor, it's me, Martha. I'm calling because -- because something really weird is going on. Reports are saying the Devil is America, and UNIT thinks it's connected to the infection that's been breaking out. It's starting to worry UNIT, and we need your help. I need your help. Call me back? Thanks. ...bye." There's another long silence, as she debates if there's anything to add, before she shuts off her phone, and hopes for the best.

Hopes he'll call back.

Her phone doesn't ring, but the doorbell does.

For a moment, she thinks it's him, but int he past, he's just landed the TARDIS in her living room, making a mess of things. She doesn't think enough time has passed for him to change, not in that regard.

Instead, a UNIT soldier stands at her doorway, a grim expression on her face. She hands over a briefcase to Martha, before saluting. "Ma'am."

Martha nods at her, and heads back into her flat.

The briefcase is filled with travel documents, dossiers on who she should be able to contact, autopsy reports of the infected from Heathrow, but it's all rather scarce. 

Underneath them all is the gun.

Martha swallows back the wave of deja vu, and starts to pack.

 

*

 

Mickey comes home when she's mostly packed, only missing a few of their better-hidden bits of alien tech. She fills him in, cool and clinical, just as UNIT did her.

"So what?" Mickey asks. "You're just going after this gun then, even though we're minutes away from a total quarantine? Are you crazy?"

"If I'm crazy, so are you for marrying me," she deflects easily, going back to packing her bag.

"Do you even know if this gun exists?" Mickey asks, still hanging back in the doorway.

Martha tosses him the first vial -- a sickly, pale green fluid sloshes inside as he catches it.

"What is it?" he asks, inspecting it from different angles.

"I'm not sure," Martha confesses. UNIT hadn't told her, and she's not sure she wants to know might be able to kill a Time Lord. Or the Devil.

Mickey raises an eyebrow, picking up on her hesitance, but he just tosses it back to her. "This is America's problem," he settles on next. "Don't they have people over there that can handle it?"

"Obviously not, if they've let things slip this far. And if there are people helping out, there aren't enough, and I should be a welcome help."

Mickey keeps frowning. "You can't get to America from here -- Heathrow won't fly out there anymore, won't accept any planes from there, not after last month."

"I'm not going to America, not yet," she says. She zips up her bag, and hefts it over her shoulder. "First, I'm going to Budapest."

"The second vial," MIckey says, faintly, remembering Martha telling him about the Year That Never Was. He looks hesitant. "Are you really sure--?"

"Something's wrong, Mickey. And I can't just sit here and do nothing. You understand."

"How long?"

"How long what? Will I be gone?"

"How long can you wait?"

Martha bites her lip. "I can't."

"So I don't even have time to pack a bag?" Mickey asks, raising an eyebrow.

The worry melts from her, and she flings her arms around him. "Not very long," she amends, kissing him on the cheek. "Thank you."

While Mickey starts rummaging around his closet -- pulling out his military wear from Pete's World, the heavy duty jacket he got when they first started hunting freelance, as well as the better-hidden bits of alien technology that he's modified -- Martha sneaks out on the balcony, and dials the number again. It goes through to voicemail, and she tightens her grip on the phone. "Doctor-- please. We need your help." And then Mickey is calling from inside, and she shuts the phone quickly, hurrying in and helping him find where he put his skeleton keys.

 

*

 

She's Martha Jones. She saved the world. She traveled the world, gave everyone hope, she did more than anyone else could possibly think of doing, and she's going to do it again. There's no rational reason why she's standing at Tom Milligan's door, hoping that tonight is the lucky one night a month where he spends the night out with mates. So she schools her expression into something that hopefully doesn't look panicked, and knocks at the door.

There is a long wait, until she hears heavy footsteps coming towards the door. It opens, and Tom stares at her, looking like he doesn't quite believe she is there.

"Hey, Tom," Martha says, voice coming out more timid than she had hoped.

Tom stares at her, then looks over her shoulder at Mickey, then back at her. "Hey, Martha." He looks like he can't decide whether he should be annoyed or not, and there's a strain in his voice as he asks, "Do you need something?"

"I need your help," she says bluntly. After a beat, she amends, "We need your help."

"I take it that's Mickey?" he asks, the strain becoming more evident, as he leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms.

"Yes. And we need your help," Martha repeats.

"With what?"

"It's the apocalypse," she says.

Tom barks a laugh, chin tipping towards the ceiling. "Yeah, well, I can't say I'm surprised."

She steels herself. "Do you remember what I told you about the gun--"

"Martha," Tom interrupts, suddenly somber. "Do you remember why we broke up?"

"Because you're a prick?" Mickey mutters.

Martha turns to give him a glare, then looks back to Tom. "I know you don't believe you're the guy from the Year that Never Was--"

"Because I'm not--"

"--but I don't care. I know there's a brave man in there who can become him, and what better time is there than this?" When he doesn't reply, Martha continues, "The world is ending, Tom. And you can help. You know you can."

He crosses his arms. "So what, you want me to drop everything, and fly with you to America?"

"Budapest first," she corrects. "Then Hong Kong, then America."

His gaze goes distant.

He's not immune to wanderlust, and not immune to excitement. "You have ten minutes to pack up," Martha tells him.


	2. I-80

Every day in the Year that Never Was was planned out meticulously -- at great cost, at great stress, with a great number of contingency plans, but she had to be able to tell her story, and tell her story to everyone she could, and be able to get around, taking enough time for a year to pass, but at the same time moving quickly around enough so that the Master wouldn't find her.

Now, when it's her and Mickey and Tom fighting against a disease that neither Martha nor Tom can make sense of, there's no time scale, other than _as quickly as possible_. It takes a few weeks, to get to Budapest, to get to Hong Kong, get the blue and pink vials of liquid, and then she's on the impossible voyage of trying to cross the Pacific Ocean. All transportation is going down, and it's a complete global disaster, and Martha just keeps an eye toward the east, waiting for the coast.

They arrive in San Francisco to find that it is nearly abandoned.

A ragged man in his later years is their captain, and as they approach one of the beaches, he explains big cities had been hit the hardest, and after the quarantine, there had been a full-city evacuation. He also tells them that he's done all he can for them, he can't see them through the city.

They step onto the beach, and Mickey and Tom turn to look at her expectantly.

Martha squares her shoulders, and starts off, Mickey following her, Tom trailing behind.

 

*

 

The UNIT building hasn't changed in all the years past, and she's glad for that. It's noon, the city is bright, though there's a chill from the bay. They have established a brisk pace, not putting out too much energy, but fast enough where they could easily turn it into a run in a moment's notice.

In Budapest and Hong Kong, there had been UNIT members waiting for her at the entry to the building, escorting her into the building, to the vial, and back out. No one remains in San Francisco -- the city had ordered its evacuation, and UNIT had given their orders for the evacuation orders to be followed.

Mickey and Tom had waited outside both times before, and as Martha tugs her UNIT ID badge free, she looks between them. "Are you coming in with me?"

"Why wouldn't we?" Tom asks, raising an eyebrow.

"It's a building. It's easy to get trapped inside buildings, ambushed, and it's hard to fight your way out of them," Mickey tells him, gaze intent. Then he grins at Martha. "And of course I'm coming in with you, babe."

Martha rolls her eyes, suppressing the blossom of warmth she always gets at the endearment.

Tom spends a moment considering it. "Yeah, but I'd rather be stuck in there with the two of you than out here without you."

"Wouldn't be the first time we'd have a tourist," Mickey says.

Martha smiles at the memory, and scans her card, and ushers the two of them in.

UNIT buildings are cold and unyielding on a normal basis, and even that much more when just lit by the emergency lights that had flipped on when Martha had keyed into the building. From her visit last time, Martha is able to lead them up four floors -- by stair, as has learned is best -- to the laboratories. 

Mickey and Tom trail her as she goes through the labs, keying into all the safes, before she finds the vial of bright yellow liquid. 

Although he doesn't say it properly loud enough for it to be heard and commented upon, Martha does hear Tom remark, "Well, that was exciting."

Mickey snorts.

Martha will take the ease of plucking a vial over the disaster that was Budapest last time around.

They make their way quietly out of the building, and Martha is relieved that there is no large crowd of Croats waiting in ambush when they exit.

They're just out of the building when Martha stops to a still, and swears quietly to herself. "I'll be back in a minute."

They both turn back to look at her, though once he sees Tom looking, Mickey turns back around to keep an eye out for Croats.

"Did you get the wrong vial?" Mickey asks, and Martha supposes it was meant as a joke, but it falls flat to all of them.

"I forgot about transportation," she says, pulling her ID back out.

"We can just hotwire a car," Mickey points out. "You know I'm good at that."

"I know you are," Martha repeats. "But after this is all over, I don't want to have to track the owner down. I'd rather borrow a car I know how to return."

Mickey stares at her, sadly, but then he makes a show of double-checking his gun. "We can wait out here, can't we?"

"No problem," Tom replies, keeping his gun also at the ready.

Martha hadn't stopped by the San Francisco garage last time around, and it takes her a few minutes to wander around the first floor looking for it. She feels like it should be harder for her to break into the office holding all the keys, but she supposes that UNIT had lowered its security, in expectation of her visit. She looks through the inventory, before deciding on a dark green Jeep Wrangler.

Mickey and Tom are crouching by the side of the building, off the sidewalk. Mickey is facing her, Tom is faced the other way. Mickey elbows Tom, and then they're hurrying over to the Jeep. Tom has only just buckled in behind her when Martha catches a flash of movement in the rearview mirror.

Martha swears as the Croats start streaming into the street, and she tunes out the swearing of Tom and the quick instructions of Mickey, and the car is in drive and then she's punching the gas, tires squealing against the asphalt. The Croats are coming from every direction, arms swiping into the open hatchback, and she doesn't know how easily a Jeep can drive through a group of Croats, so she gives out a quick, "Hang tight," as she mounts the curb, where there's not as big of a group, and then she's punching through the crowd of them, jerking back onto the street, and slamming down on the gas.

San Francisco is empty, thankfully, no cars on the road, and so she's quickly driving through all the graffitied stop signs and powerless stop lights.

They're a solid five minutes away from the Croats when Martha feels her blood pressure drop enough for her to take in a deep calming breath, which she exhales shakily. "You alright?" she asks, not daring to take her eyes off the road.

"Yeah, we're good," Mickey replies.

Some of the tension leaks out of her shoulders, and she eases up on the gas, just slightly, and keeps on alert.

"You know where we're going?" Mickey continues.

She nods. "I have done this before," she reminds him.

"You don't want me to drive then?" Mickey asks.

"Do you know how to get from San Francisco across the country?"

"I could," Mickey says, defensively. "They're just streets."

"And there's a road map here," Tom offers, and Martha watches in the rearview mirror as Tom leans in, and taps the map against Mickey's arm.

"So I learn up on where we're going, and then we switch over?"

Martha looks at him. "You really like driving, don't you?"

He shrugs.

Martha eases back more into her seat, as she turns onto a highway that will take her east.

"Do either of you know exactly where we're going?" Tom asks, after a long minute. "East, yeah, but America's got a bit of east, especially at this point. Where is the Devil?"

"I don't know yet, but we'll find him," Martha says, with more conviction than she has -- and she has the conviction, just not the way of knowing how to get it.

Tom just settles down in the back. "Yell if you need anything from me," he tells them, closing his eyes.

Martha makes a vaguely affirmative noise, and keeps her eyes on the road.

"Do you have a plan for how exactly we're going to proceed from here, or...?" Mickey asks. "I don't mind brainstorming with you."

"I know," Martha replies. 

And she likes brainstorming with Mickey. He brings an unexpected twist to things. Which have helped out so many times in the past. But Martha doesn't know how to tell him that she still expects the Doctor to call her back, to pick up when she calls, for him to help her out, because she needs it. She can't tell Mickey that this is all going to be reversed, like everything with the Master was, because Martha has been with him long enough to know he wouldn't just let this happen.

It doesn't explain why he isn't here yet, or why he hasn't contacted her yet. She just considers that he'll come in after the eleventh hour, and that they're not there yet -- it's easier to consider than the fact that he may not come at all.

And even if Martha has to keep calm and carry on until the Doctor comes, she'll find some way to make do, as she always does. It's what she does, what she excels at.

 

*

 

A quiet hour passes, then two, as they drive through California, still two hours away from the next state over.

"Anyone else getting hungry?" Martha asks.

"I could go for some vending machine snacks, yeah," Mickey says. He turns around in his seat, and looks at Tom. "Think we should wake the wanker up, ask if he wants anything?"

Martha sighs. "He's not a wanker, and we can ask him when we locate a vending machine."

"You'll probably want to get off the highway for that, babe, and yes he is."

"Because he dated me before I dated you, or because he's been a _such_ burden, slowing us down the past two weeks?" Martha asks, turning at him, raising an eyebrow.

Mickey frowns.

"He's been good," Martha continues. "You can't argue with that -- he knows his way around a gun, picks things up quickly. We could have done it without him, but he has helped us a lot of times."

"I just don't like him because he dated you," Mickey admits. "And because you still haven't told me which one of you broke off your engagement, which makes me think it was him, which makes him a prick."

Martha rolls her eyes. "I've told you it was mutual."

"And I've told you I don't quite believe that."

"Never would have noticed," Martha says, as she pulls over a few lanes, over to an exit lane. "What do you think is the best place to get a vending machine?"

"We could just rob a petrol station," Mickey says.

Martha has to bite back a laugh. "That's not the first time you've suggested that," she feels fit to remind him.

"And then you usually come up with a better idea, but you have to admit, it may not be out of place this time."

Mickey's got a point, Martha agrees.

 

*

 

They're half an hour into Nevada and Mickey has taken over driving while Martha has switched to sitting in the back. She notices Mickey keeps looking in the rearview mirror, and she turns around to see a enforced Ford truck is a hundred meters behind them, and approaching quickly.

Tom turns around as well. "Croats can't drive, can they?"

"I don't think so," Martha says.

"Martha, could you please get my bag out and ready?" Mickey asks, voice tense.

Martha unbuckles, and shifts over to the side, so to get a better access point to their bags in the boot.

The Ford pulls up on their left, and makes to ram them, and Mickey slams on the breaks, jerking the car to the right, and Martha goes flying out of the side of the Jeep, onto the highway. 

"Martha!" Mickey yells.

"Arsehole!" Tom yells.

Mickey puts the car into park, and scrambles out of the car, running towards where Martha is lying on the asphalt.

"What the fuck was that?" Tom yells, as a man gets out of Ford.

"What the fuck was _that_?" the man replies, frowning at him. "That was some pretty sloppy driving."

"You almost rammed into us!"

"I've seen nothing on this road for the last few months but Croats," the man says, voice low, obviously suspicious.

"Yeah, well, we could say the same," Tom argues.

"Hello," Martha greets, as Mickey supports her as she limps over. "I'm Martha. Who are you?"

The man stares at her for a minute, still frowning. "Name's Rufus."

"It's nice to meet you, Rufus," Martha says, wincing as her shoulder is jostled. "This is Mickey, and that's Tom."

"You sound British," Rufus says.

"We are British."

"What're you doing in America?"

"Trying to find out what's wrong, and stop it."

Rufus raises an eyebrow. "You Hunters?" he asks dubiously.

"I suppose we're something like that," Martha says, smiling humorlessly.

"This is a wonderful meeting," Tom says, casting a look around them. "But we've already been ambushed by Croats once today, I'd really rather we not give them a second chance."

"Where you going?" Rufus asks, looking between them.

"East."

"Finding a place for the night," Mickey corrects.

Rufus glares at Tom, then addresses Martha and says, "There's a motel up ahead that's abandoned, but still has all the basics running. Follow me."

Martha nods, and Mickey helps her into the backseat, climbing up into the front.

Tom glares as Rufus drives off unceremoniously, but buckles in in the front next to Mickey. He exchanges a look with Martha, looks like he's about to say something, but thinks better of it, and nods at the road ahead. "You driving or what?"

Mickey doesn't respond, just slams down on the gas and takes after Rufus.

 

*

 

Rufus doesn't like Tom, and he doesn't bother to hide it. Even though the motel was safe when he first arrived, he likes to do checks whenever he comes and goes, and drags Mickey out with him.

"Be back in a half an hour," Rufus says, as they're heading out. "If we're not, run."

Martha nods grimly.

Mickey hangs back for a moment, looking at Martha, gaze flitting to her left shoulder. "You alright? That was a bit off a fall."

She shrugs with her uninjured shoulder. "Nothing much-- just scraped, a bit of road rash, and my shoulder's dislocated."

"You want me to relocate it for you?"

Martha smiles. "Thanks, but while I know you've gained valuable experience, Tom here is actually a practicing doctor..."

Mickey nods, then heads out, locking the door behind him.

"Who said I offered?" Tom asks, even as he kneels down next to where she's sitting at the very edge of the bed. "Sit up straight," he adds.

Martha straightens her back, and relaxes as best as she can. She places her hand on his shoulder, and Tom wraps his fingers around her forearm.

"Relax," Tom says, as he reaches his other hand up, and starts massaging her trapezius muscles. Then he'll go down to her deltoids muscles, then her biceps, at which point he will ease the humeral head back into its socket.

" _Relax_ ," Tom repeats.

Martha sighs, and forces herself to relax.

Tom is still on her trapezius muscles, as he says, "So, lovely weather out."

Martha huffs out a laugh, and closes her eyes. She's acutely aware of the fact his thumb is rubbing idle circles on the inside of her elbow. It's a soothing trick, something he used to do for her after an eventful day with UNIT.

Something he would do back when they were engaged.

Martha feels like they should talk about it, but there's really nothing to talk about. Martha called him after the Year That Never Was, they dated, they got engaged, they broke up. Martha started dating Mickey, got engaged to Mickey, married Mickey.

"Don't think Rufus likes me much," Tom says, as he moves down to her deltoids.

Martha opens his eyes. There's a forced lightness to his tone, and she stares at him.

After a tense minute, Tom says, "I don't know what you want me to say."

"I don't want you to say anything," Martha says, and it's almost automatic, and she's really not surprised that their relationship didn't work out.

"That's what you say, but part of you expects me to say something. The part of you that only sees Thomas Milligan who helped you in a time that doesn't exist."

"That's not true."

"Why else did we break up, Martha?" he asks, and his voice isn't sharp, but it's almost accusing.

A part of her thinks about doctors who disappear off to distant places, and she thinks about getting out.

It hurts, doubly more so when she feels her shoulder popped back into its socket. Her hand clenches on his shoulder at the sensation, and she starts to sink forward.

Tom moves up to sit behind her, and pulls her back against him. His lips brush against her temple as he says, "I wish things had ended up differently."

Martha wishes things had ended differently too, but not completely -- she's happy with Mickey, she loves him, she's glad she's marrying them, but there's still a part of her that wonders.

A part of her thinks about doctors who disappear off to distant places, who aren't there when she needs them.

She thinks about picking herself up afterwards.

The handle to the room starts to turn, and Martha pulls away from Tom. She slides on her jacket, wincing as the fabric slides over her scraped skin.

Mickey returns, and Martha leaves. She knows that Mickey will be suspicious, and that it will cause further tensions between them all, but she just needs to get out of the room.

She finds her way to the Jeep, and leans up against the bonnet.

"If you're going to be an idiot and leave the area that we've painstakingly checked for and created wards to guard against Croats," comes Rufus' voice, a few minutes later, as he comes up beside her, "the least you can do for your safety is sit on the hood, and be at a position to see any incoming invasions."

Martha gives him a self-deprecating smile at his words. "Sorry," she says, and she tries not to jostle her arm too badly as she pushes up onto the bonnet of the car.

He holds a beer can out to her. "There's still alcohol left? I would have thought it would have been the first thing to go," she says, though she still takes it.

"You'd be surprised at the stashes people stored," Rufus says.

They're quiet for a long stretch of minutes. Rufus is drinking with far more gusto than Martha is.

"Personal drama is also another thing you'd think would be the first to go, but it seems that still hangs in there."

"For what it's worth, I agree," Martha says. Part of the reason the Year was so successful was because she could flit around, no ties to anyone, knowing not to get attached, not having to worry about attachments. "But..." she sighs, not sure what or who she's trying to defend.

"It's human nature," Rufus says, wisely.

"You don't think Croats have personal drama amongst themselves?" Martha asks. The question makes her want to wince, it makes her want to be scolded. She wants to point out the Croats seem like a hive mind, that the Toclafane were also a hive mind. She wants the justification to make him disappointed, she wants to make him scold her, she wants him to be here, in his conversation, in this miserable excuse of an adventure.

Rufus isn't the Doctor though, and seems mostly unaware of her expectations. "Nope," he says, dryly.

Martha tilts her head back and laughs, even though it seems less funny as it goes on. She finally swallows back the budding hysteria, and takes a good swig of the beer. Budweiser. It tastes horrible, but she's not going to tell Rufus that.

"You okay?" Rufus asks, finally.

Martha shakes her head, but says, "As much as I can be."

Rufus pushes off the car, and waits for her to do the same. "Hopefully both of yours will still be alive when we head back in there," Rufus says, as they start back to the motel.

"They will be," Martha says, absently. 

Sure enough, they are both in the room, each on a bed, Tom being displaced to the further bed, and they're cleaning a large array of guns, some Martha recognizes, some she doesn't.

"I'm glad to see we're pooling resources," Martha says, as she settles down next to Mickey, and starts helping.

"If pooling resources means that I'm using your friends for help, yes," Rufus says. "I'm guessing your next stop is Camp Chitaqua?"

"What's that?"

"Head of the resistance 'gainst the Croats and Devil, as much as it can be."

"Sounds like fun," Mickey says, as he sets down one gun, starts on the other.

"You know where it is?"

Martha shakes her head.

"I'll add it to your map."

"You're not coming with us?"

Rufus shakes his head. "I got better things to do than go see Winchester."

Martha raises an eyebrow.

"Dean Winchester," Rufus clarifies. "Head honcho of Camp Chitaqua. One of our best hunters out there. Real idiot."

Mickey snorts.

"Well that's who you're going to be seeing. He's... he's something, and I'll let y'all have the pleasure of meeting him yourself."

"Well, that's a reassuring vote of confidence," Tom says, brightly, as he sets one gun down, starts on the next.

"If he's the best we have," Mickey says, voice laden with something that makes Martha look at him sharply.

Tom just stares at him for a long minute. His eyes have hardened around the edges, but he doesn't say anything, just continues his work quietly.

"You'll be going with us for some part of the way, though, right?" Martha asks.

Rufus shrugs. "Don't see why not?"

"When do you think we should head out tomorrow morning?"

"Soon as we can. Early in the morning-- not before the sun's risen, we don't want to have the possibility of Croats hiding in any shadows, at least any more than normal, but we need to get on the road soon, and away from them sooner."

Martha nods, and makes a show of stretching, her shirt riding up. She feels mildly complimented when Mickey and Tom both look up to watch her. "We should be heading to sleep then?" she asks.

"Me and Milligan will take the room next door," Rufus says, as he starts compiling his weapons back up.

Tom nods, and helps packing up. He nods at Martha and Mickey as he leaves the room.

Martha wonders how long they can forestall this conversation, and is glad when Mickey doesn't actually ask about it. They ready for bed, and once on the mattress, though, Mickey wraps himself around her tighter than he normally does.

"Don't worry about him," she tells him, slowly, carefully.

"It's not always worry," Mickey mumbles into her hair. "And not always about him."

Martha closes her eyes, and tries to ignore the implications. She hates that Mickey knows how desperate she is for the Doctor, but she just can't do anything to truly reassure him.

 

*

 

Tom dies in Salt Lake City, Utah.

Rufus warned them not to get too close to major cities, penciled in alternate, more circumspect ways to get to South Dakota that didn't involve a major international highway. But they were still over a thousand miles away from the camp, and they were eager to get there.

So they went through Salt Lake City.

And got ambushed by Croats on their way out of a petrol station. Mickey's arm was nearly torn off, and Martha receives a glancing knife wound across her stomach, but it's Tom who's dragged out through the open back of the Jeep by the crowd of Croats.

Mickey hits the gas, and they speed away.

Martha turns around in her seat, watches as the Croats converge on Tom.

She doesn't cry, or if she does she's not aware of it.

She stays sitting up until the scene passes under the horizon, and then after, until Mickey gently coaxes her down.

Martha is quiet for the next two hours, until they reach the Wyoming border, and she very quietly asks that Mickey pull the car over.

She steps out, walks a few steps, and throws up.

Panicked thoughts are racing through her head, and her breathing quickens, and she throws up again. She tries to take a few deep breaths, quiet the doubtful voices in her head, but it takes far longer for her to do than she would like.

She walks back towards the car.

Mickey watches her as she very calmly buckles herself back in. His voice is soft as he says, "We should probably find some place to rest for the night."

"We need to get to Camp Chitaqua," Martha says. "If we trade driving shifts, we should be able to arrive by ten tomorrow morning."

"We should pull into a motel, rest while we can. It's less populated out here in the west, or at least where we are now. Smaller population, less threat, you know?"

Martha turns towards him, tears starting to sting in her eyes. "Mickey, please."

Mickey's hands tighten on the wheel, as he hesitantly starts driving down the highway again. "Martha," he says, after a few minutes. "I'm tired. I'm pulling over next exit. We'll get some rest, recuperate."

Martha stares at him, and notices the tense lines of his body, the pinched expression on his face. She nods.

There's silence as they keep driving, as Mickey turns off the next exit, as he maneuvers through the ghost of a town, as he pulls up to a motel, as he breaks down the door into a room. He's working on sealing up the room when Martha clears her throat.

"Before Jack, the Doctor and I went to confront the Master on the Valiant, the Doctor made a perception filter out of my TARDIS key." And then she over towards her bag and starts rooting through it, before pulling out the TARDIS key she had stowed away in her bag. She holds it out to Mickey. "Think you could make another?"

Mickey raises an eyebrow. "You want me to monkey around with Time Lord technology?"

She nods.

He takes the key from her hand with a shaking reverence only she can appreciate. "I'll try," he says.

Martha goes and lays down on the bed, not bothering to dress down, not bothering to take her shoes off.

Mickey knows Martha is still awake, and so after a tense stretch of minutes, he asks, voice shaking, "Where is he, then?"

Martha doesn't reply, only pulls herself into a ball.

"The Doctor," Mickey clarifies, though it didn't need clarification. His voice is quiet, but rough around the edges with anger. "Where is he? He makes a big show of comin' 'round, savin' the world. Well, the world could use some saving right about now. So where is he?"

Martha feels tears prick in her eyes.

"Where--"

"I'm going on a rations raid," Martha says, standing up abruptly, making a beeline towards the door.

Mickey scrambles to get up. "Martha, wait, it's not safe, I'm sorry, I shouldn't've--"

But she's already slammed the door after her. She takes quick strides across the parking lot, past the Jeep, onto the sidewalk and down the street.

It's only when she knows she's out of hearing range does she sit down on the curb, feet on the street, and pull out her mobile. She flips it open, but her hands are too shaky and make her way to the contact menu, and even if she could, her eyes are blurring too much to see the Doctor's number.

It's not that she would need to see it, though -- if she could get to her recent calls, any of the nearly dozen calls will be the Doctor's number.

The thought brings more tears to her eyes, and she's taking a quick inhale of breath, trying hard not to cry.

But it's the end of the world, and the Doctor isn't here.


	3. Camp Chitaqua

After a fitful night of sleep and an early morning, it's an uneventful fourteen hour drive to Camp Chitaqua.

There's a chain link fence surrounding the area, and Mickey pulls up to a stop a few meters down the road from it.

As they make the rest of their way to the fence on foot, Martha spots two guards. They spot her and Mickey a moment later, rifles coming up and aiming at them.

Martha and Mickey raise their hands.

"Who are you?" one of the guards barks.

"I'm Martha Jones. This is Mickey Smith. We need to talk to Dean."

"Rufus sent us," Mickey adds. "We're not Croats."

"Do you want us to show your our teeth?" Martha asks.

The men at the gates look at each other, one shrugging at the other, then the other starts working on opening the lock.

"Thank you," Martha says, taking a few steps through, but one man holds up his hand.

"Sorry," he says, "but you have to relinquish all weapons before entering the compound."

"That doesn't make any sense," Mickey says from behind Martha. "Relinquish all weapons in a military-like compound?"

"Let me rephrase," the man says, teeth almost baring, while the man behind them starts locking the chain-link fence. "All _visitors_ must relinquish all weapons before entering the compound."

Martha immediately unbuckles her thigh holster, followed by her chest holster. The sounds of unclipping and unzipping come from behind her, as Mickey follows suit.

"And we'll need to do a cavity search," the one from behind them says.

"Rob," the man in front of them says low, warningly. "He's just being a jackass. However, we will need to do a bag search."

"I can't let you do that," Martha says.

Rob looks her up and down. There's a friendly tone to his voice that is not reflected in his eyes. "And why's that?"

"None of your damn business," Mickey says.

"You're on our property. That makes it our business," Rob snarls.

"I have a gun in my bag," Martha says. "And it's a very important gun, and I can't let you take it."

"What?" Rob asks, his voice going flat, eyes wide.

In front of them, the other man is just still. "You..." he trails off. "Rob, go get Dean."

There is no argument, and Rob rushes past them, starting towards the houses on the compound.

The man is looking between them, eyes wide. "How did you get it?" he asks softly, but it doesn't seem like he's looking for an answer. He clears his throat, then squares his shoulders. "This can't wait." He reaches down, takes one of Mickey's guns, and looks very seriously at the two. "If you're bullshitting us, I will put a bullet through your heads."

"Just one through both of us?" Mickey asks, and Martha elbows him in the side.

The man rolls his eyes, and starts down a path, gesturing for them to follow.

There's a whispering crowd as the man leads them up to a cabin.

A man is making his way down the steps. Close cropped hair, distressed camo green jacket, worn jeans, a thigh holster and heavy boots. He's a few years older than Martha, and the pinched expression on his face makes him look even older.

Dean Winchester, Martha guesses.

"We need to talk to you," Martha says.

"Where did you get it? I need to see it."

"We need to talk to you, alone," Martha reiterates. She holds her ground under his gaze.

Dean stares at them for a long time, then nods, and starts back into the cabin.

"Jeff," he says, and immediately the man turns to him, back straightening, "stand guard outside. Keep a sharp eye out," he adds in a low undertone.

Jeff frowns, but nods, stepping down off the porch.

Martha and Mickey walk up the stairs, pass Dean on their way into the room, but Dean stays hesitating in the doorway.

Martha turns, and sees another guy shoving through the crowd, and up the stairs to the porch. Jeff doesn't stop him.

"We need to talk to you alone," Mickey repeats, looking dubious.

"I'm his guardian angel," the guy said as he walks into the room, sinking into a chair. The smell of marijuana catches up to Martha, and she sees that his eyes are completely bloodshot, and he is breathing at a slightly higher rate. He smiles blithely at her.

"It's okay, Mickey," Martha says, sitting down at the same table.

Mickey makes a vague noise of discontentment, but doesn't say anything else, just stands and hovers behind Martha.

"What's this about?" Dean asks, sitting down across from her.

"Do you remember Harold Saxon?" Martha asks.

Dean stares at her blankly. "Who?"

"The Master?" the other guy -- the guardian angel -- asks.

Martha turns towards him. "You remember?"

"Of course. It was a human debate, the angels couldn't influence the outcome."

"Who's this Saxon guy?" Dean asks, bristling.

"He ran for the British Prime Minister in the Spring of 2008. He won by a landslide, but it turned out he was an alien--"

Dean snorts, but Martha continues on.

"--and he took over the world."

"One," Dean starts, with a finger wag, "I think I would remember some guy ruling the world, and two, aliens aren't real."

"Aliens are real," the guy says, completely serious beneath his stoned exterior.

Dean turns and stares at him.

"And the reason you don't remember it is because the Doctor and I reversed it."

"You couldn't've told me this a little bit sooner?" Dean asks the possibly-angel. Then he turns back to Martha, his features hardened. "Now, what's any of this got to do with the Colt?"

"I don't have the Colt," Martha said, calmly.

Dean's expression shuts down, before twisting into something hostile. "Then what the fuck are you doing here? You just raised a lot of peoples' hopes, you know that?"

"To defeat the Master, I went around the world, collecting the gun in four parts, said to be able to kill a Time Lord. Alien. It was rubbish, just so I would have a story to tell, but afterwards, UNIT was approached with the idea of making a gun that could do what the gun in four parts was supposed to do."

She bends down, rifles through her bag, and pulls out with the gun, which she places on the table. "And this is it. It can kill Time Lord, alien, anything."

"Anything?" Dean repeats, dubiously.

"It should be able to," Martha amends. "UNIT designed it more for aliens and such, not the devil."

"You're Martha Jones," the man finally says, dazedly.

Martha blinks. "Yes."

The man just nods, and pulls out a bottle out of a pocket, and pops a few small white pills.

"This is Cas," Dean introduces. "Now, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Rufus sent us," Mickey says, vaguely accusing. "Said you could help."

Dean levels him with an unimpressed look, but Cas breaks in, slurring something along the lines of, "Our fearless leader can do anything," with a nod, looking like it's the best bit of wisdom he's ever heard or said.

Mickey looks ready to argue that, or snap at somebody, but Dean talks over him and says, "Chuck says there's a legion of Croats heading this way, no one's coming in or out for the next few days. If you're going to ice the devil, I'm going to help. But I got a camp full of twitchy civilians, and I'm not putting them in any danger. I'll get you to Lucifer, just not until then, got it?"

"A legion of Croats?" Mickey asks. "How can anybody know if a legion is heading their way?"

"Chuck is a prophet," Cas says, in the same knowing voice.

"No one comes in or out," Dean repeats, an edge to his voice. "Got it?"

"So what are we supposed to do until then?" Mickey asks, bristling. "Just fuck around your camp?"

"If you'd like," Dean barks. "Cas holds daily orgies."

Mickey is about ready to rebuke that, dark expression on his face, but Martha interrupts. "Mickey," she says, and it comes out rough and tired.

Mickey seems to calm at that. "Is there anywhere we can sleep?"

Dean is making his way towards the door. "I'll have Chuck show you around."

"The prophet?" Mickey snarks.

Dean stops in the doorway, and makes his way over to Mickey. "Don't say that," and his voice has a difference sort of seriousness to it. "It's the end of days here, and people will believe anything they hear. If people start thinking that Chuck's a prophet, they'll start believing it, believing in him, and they'll be shot down when they realized Chuck can't prophecize shit."

Mickey nods, a bit baffled by the edge in Dean's voice. "Got it."

"Chuck is the guy with the red hair that smells like booze. Tell him I sent you, and if he starts complaining, remind him I sent you. Now get out." And then Dean stalks over to where Cas is in the corner. He pulls him roughly to his feet, and starts barking something in hushed tones, while Cas just nods dazedly.

Martha gets to her feet, wondering when she got so tired. Mickey wraps an arm around her, pressing a kiss to her temple, but the gesture is too familiar, and she shrugs it off with a strained smile. She heads out the door, followed by Mickey.

Jeff watches them suspiciously, as if wondering why they are still there.

"Dean told us to get Chuck," Mickey says.

"Why?"

"Are you questioning Dean?" Mickey asks, pitching his voice just a bit louder.

Jeff winces, and pulls out a radio. He clicks it over to a station, and barks for Chuck to go to the main cabin, Dean's orders.

A few awkward and tense minutes later, a ginger guy hurries up to them. "Sorry," he huffs, tucking his shirt back into his trousers, "I was, uh..."

"We need somewhere to sleep," Mickey says, wrapping an arm around Martha's waist.

Martha thanks him silently, leaning back against him.

"Oh, yeah, got it. Don't know if I have a bed big enough for two people, the only one that big is--" he breaks off, flicking his glance back towards the cabin Martha and Mickey were just in, but then turns his attention towards the clipboard tucked under his arm. "I have a cabin with two beds that are free, if you don't mind sharing a cabin with complete strangers."

Mickey laughs. "We've had worse."

Chuck nods, and laughs nervously. "Yeah, I know the feeling. But uh, if you'll just follow me...?"

Mickey looks at Jeff briefly, then says, "Gladly," and starts steering Martha as they follow Chuck.

"And also, Dean wants you to show us around tomorrow," Mickey adds, as they make their way in silence.

Martha huffs, and smiles sleepily. Even though it's still early in the evening, she's halfway to sleep already, and she wonders if Mickey would mind carrying her.

But then they stop outside a cabin, and Chuck hurries up the stairs, knocks on the door. He speaks hurriedly with the girl there, making some odd hand gestures, pointing once towards Mickey and Martha, and then the girl nods and opens the door a bit more.

"This is Eliza," Chuck says. "Eliza, this is Martha and Mickey."

"Guessed as much," she says, as she beckons them into the cabin. "Whole camp has been talking about you. Jeff says you have a gun that can ice the devil."

"We do," Martha says, pushing as much conviction into her voice that she can.

"Well I don't give a fuck, to be honest, but I'm glad someone does."

It's an attitude that Martha came across many times during the Year That Never Was, but she's too tired to let it bother her now.

 

*

 

Word spreads that Martha's a doctor, and Chuck approaches her with a list of all the injured occupants -- a man with a serious arm injury, a woman with back muscle spasms, a man with a lingering cough, and a wide array of stitches needed, infected cuts, scraps, sores, aches and pains.

The only time Martha has any reprieve is when one of the injured is busy, which Martha soon learns means they're with Cas.

"I seriously don't get what's with all the orgies," Mickey says, under his breath, as they wait at one of the park tables.

Martha shrugs. "It's the end of days, people find comfort where they can."

"Uh-huh. And how many orgies did you participate in during your last apocalypse?"

Martha rolls her eyes.

The days pass, the Croat legion passes, and the camp becomes restless, everywhere filled with a flurry of activity. People are talking, and Chuck looks as ragged as Martha had been the other day, as he goes around and talking to everyone.

"What's going on?" Martha asks Jeff as she catches him passing them.

He gives her a sour look, but says, "Supply run. Talk to Chuck if you need anything," before continuing on his way.

Chuck approaches them a few minutes later. "Hey," he says, sounding slightly breathless. "They're heading south-east, down about three hours, to a town they haven't touched, and were wondering if you need anything? No one's been to the town in a while, so if there's anything special, they may actually have it. Aside from medical supplies, we already have those on the list."

"Some shaving cream might be nice," Martha says, glancing at the beard of Mickey's that's starting to grow. She reaches her knuckles over and ruffles the scruff. "Maybe you can get that thing off your face."

"Hey," Mickey says, starting to rub his soul patch. "You love my facial hair."

Martha rolls her eyes, then turns back to Chuck. "We're good, though."

Chuck stares at her blankly. "You sure? Usually people are listing everything they can think of, on the off chance it'll be there."

"Nah," Mickey says, while Martha nods at his hand and says, "Looks like you could take a break from writing."

Chuck's hand is cramped in a writing position, and he flexes it slightly. "Oh, don't worry, I used to do more writing than this." He stops short, and he looks like he'd very much like to take that statement back. "But are you sure you don't need anything?"

"'m bored," Mickey says, rising to his feet. "If nothing else, I'd like to help out on this raid."

Chuck's eyebrows fly up. "Really?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"Oh, we just had a few accidents on our last raid, and no one has been jumping to help. But c'mon, I'm sure Dean will be glad for an extra pair of hands or two."

"Just an extra pair," Martha says. "I'll be busy after you get back with the medical supplies, I'll spend my time resting while you're out." But she rises to her feet, and follows after them anyway.

Dean is loading a pair of guns into the trunk of a Jeep.

Cas is right next to him, talking in hushed tones. Dean is replying angrily, loudly, though Martha can't quite make out what he's saying.

Cas says something, voice still quiet.

Dean's voice rings across the clearing as he says, "I said _no_ , Cas."

"....and you need all the help you can get," Martha can hear as they get closer.

"You're not a help to any of us in the state you're in," Dean bites back, a sharp bark.

One of the women who is helping loading the guns winces slightly, but says nothing as he passes.

The small frown on Cas' face deepens, before he goes completely expressionless. He glances at Martha, Mickey and Chuck, and says something else, completely inaudible, but before he's done talking, Dean whirls on him. "I said no."

A forced grin finds its way onto Cas' lips, and he says, "Whatever you say, O Fearless Leader," before turning around and walking back to the camp.

There's a subtle limp to his right leg that Martha didn't notice before.

"Uh, Dean?" Chuck asks, and it looks like he's cowering behind his clipboard.

"What?" Dean says, voice still sharp and biting.

"Uh," Chuck looks back at Mickey, eyebrows knitting together.

"Mickey," Martha supplies.

Chuck shoots her a grateful look, before telling Dean, "Mickey wants to help on this next supply run."

Dean snorts. "Yeah? Well we don't need his help."

"What? You're already down Jayne until his arm recovers, and if you're not letting Cas go, it's not going to be enough--"

"Do know anything about supply runs?" Dean asks through Chuck, looking at Mickey.

"Get what you need, get out and don't get bitten by a Croat?" Mickey suggests, dryly.

"Do you know any of the calls though? What to say or what call to give when you see a Croat without alerting them to your presence?"

"No, but Chuck says it's a three hour drive to the town you're going, and I may not be the brightest guy around, but I can learn what I need to in that time."

Dean frowns, and looks at him appraisingly. Martha feels a swell of pride go through her when Dean nods, and roughly says, "You're riding with Jeff. Get in the car, we're leaving in two." And he turns and stalks off.

Martha stands on her toes and kisses him on the cheek, her bottom lip catching on the edge of his goatee. "Remember to get shaving cream," she says, smiling at him.

He leans and presses a kiss to her forehead. "Sure thing, babe."  
 

*

 

They come back from a raid.

Everyone.

But Mickey.

Martha stares at them as they disembark from the two Jeeps and three trucks they took, eyes sharp, looking for Mickey.

She can't see him.

She scans the cars, through their windows, rooted to the spot. He could be lying down in a backseat, she tells herself. Her breathing is far too even.

A few people clasp her on her shoulder as they pass, Jeff included, and Martha feels cold. She can't bring herself to move.

Dean is the last to get out of the cars.

He looks at her briefly. He doesn't look sorry, doesn't look apologetic, doesn't look like he's going to say anything. He just presses his mouth into a thin line, and walks past her.

Mickey is gone.

He didn't come back.

Martha closes her eyes. Nothing has changed -- anyone can die, Mickey's death is not unexpected. She will go on like she planned, go kill the Devil, save the world. She's Martha Jones, she can save the world. She just has to do it alone. She's no longer Martha Jones-Smith. She's no longer married. Mickey is gone.

She takes a deep breath, shifts her weight, and then follows the line of people carrying supplies from the back of the truck, and asks if they found any medical supplies.

 

*

 

She's sitting on the back porch of one of the cabins, staring blankly into the forest. She let her hair down so she could rest her head fully against the wood, and she's stripped down to her undershirt. It's cold, she probably should have kept her jacket on, but she would feel cold even with it on. It feels right. She stares idly down at the bottle of whiskey she had been gifted, wondering if she should be drinking more of it. Too much time spent in med school has made her plenty aware of the effects of alcohol consumption, and she's never been too inclined to binge drink.

Mickey always paid attention to Martha's lectures on bingeing, nodded at all the right places, but it didn't stop him from going out with mates.

Her mouth tastes sour from the taste of the whiskey, and there's a careless part of her that wants to fling the bottle away from her. But for all hunters are able to find stashes of alcohol, Martha has never been reckless. Instead she sets it to her side, draws her knees up to her chest, and keeps shivering.

Dean approaches through the woods. He doesn't say anything as he climbs up the steps, or as he sits down next to her. She can only hear the thump of him leaning heavily against the cabin, and his deep sigh.

"I always thought..." she starts, words feelings hollow and she doesn't know why she's talking, but she continues, "I always thought he'd come."

There's a thick noise of agreement from beside her.

"He said he could. He promised. He should. He should be here, he should have answered my call, he should have saved -- but he didn't, and I'm just left crying to no one. I keep hoping he'll hear me, but--"

"He's gone," Dean says, and it's flat, with a biting, bitter undercurrent.

Martha inhales deeply and exhales, still shivering. "He's gone," she repeats faintly. She stands up abruptly, angrily, wanting to do something, needing to do something.

Dean stands up beside her.

She doesn't know who moves first. Their movements are sharp and angry and broken, but it's the end of the world, but they find comfort where they can.

 

*

 

There were many people injured on the supply run, and Martha keeps busy, but she keeps quiet. Everyone is quiet. The only one who talks to her is Jeff, who lowers his eyes and thanks her for patching him up.

With the more serious injuries addressed, she moves cabins, to a small barren room with just a mattress on the floor. She spends a few fitful minutes trying to sleep, her jacket acting as a blanket. It's midday, and she can't stop shivering, she can't stop and she doesn't know if she wants to.

The door to her room opens, and shuts.

"Martha..."

Martha sits up, and sees Cas standing in the middle of the room. He's stoned, his blue eyes blown wide, and there's the persistent smell of marijuana around him. He hasn't shaved, and when he kneels down in front of her, she catches the faint smell of whiskey. She's about to ask what he's doing, when he puts his hands up to her face, pulls her in closer and kisses her.

There's a part of her brain wondering what is going on, knowing this shouldn't be happening -- she's never been adverse to kissing attractive men, or having attractive men kiss her, but her husband died two days ago, she still feels broken and hollow over his death, last night had been wrong, this is wrong--

\--but as wrong as the kiss is, as chapped as Cas' lips are, there's something heavenly about it. There's a cool undertone to it, and she starts shivering harder, but it's a nice cool, it's balm over the open wounds of the fact the world is ending.

There are slow, calming movements. Cas' thumbs are tracing over her cheekbones, his tongue tracing over her bottom lip, and there's something tender about it all.

They break apart, and Martha blinks a few times and realizes she's crying. "What...?"

Cas just touches his forehead against hers. "You're Martha Jones, you've saved the world, and there's only so much grace left within me, and you deserve some of it."

Martha stares at him, and the cool feeling fades to warmth. She's Martha Jones, she's saved the world.

And she can do it again.

She just needs to find out where to go.

 

*

 

"When are we leaving?"

Dean is lying on his bed, eyes closed, fingers laced over his stomach. He doesn't get up. "I only get so many hours to myself any more, and I prefer to keep them _to myself_."

"Do you know where the Devil is?"

Dean's eyes slowly open, and he glances over to her. "I might," he says, voice quiet.

"I have traveled time and space, I have seen the very worst of humanity, and the fact that you won't tell me where the devil is, the fact you are standing in the way of what could be the only chance to finish him off--"

Dean sits up, and swings his legs off the bed. "I do not have to explain myself to you," Dean says, even as he stands up, and stares down at her.

Martha takes a step towards him. "Tell me where he is," Martha says, very calmly.

There are cracks starting to show in Dean's emotionless mask. "It's not that simple."

"You know where he is."

"Yes."

"Then tell me."

There's a muscle working in his jaw, and a harsh "I can't," becomes a softer "I _can't_ ," followed by a too-level, "My brother--"

"Dean," Martha says, softly, ducking her head slightly to meet his downcast gaze. "Where is he?"

The muscle in his jaw continues working, and for a moment Martha is afraid he won't say, but then he tells her.


	4. Detroit

She leaves soon after, drives until the sun sets; she doesn't want to use the headlights, doesn't want to risk being found by Croats, and so she pulls over and sleeps, some grace of God keeping her from being found.

She arrives in Detroit around eleven.

 

*

 

Martha goes to the first hotel she can find, and easily picks the lock into a room. She kicks the door shut behind her, and pulls the blinds close. Enough light gets through that she's able to make her way through the room, spreading her map of the city onto the nearest bed, then dropping her bags onto the farther bed.

"I take it you're Martha Jones?"

Martha jerks, and turns around.

A nondescript man in standing in the middle of her room.

His eyes are entirely black.

Martha unholsters her gun, though she doesn't know how effective a gun would be against a demon. "Yes," she says. "And who are you?"

"I am of little consequence, but I will tell you I work for Lucifer."

"And?" Martha asks, voice going tight.

"We have heard you are looking for him."

Martha nods.

"In which case, you can find him at the Jackson County Sanitarium. Which is..." The demon goes over to the map, and sets his finger down on the map. "Here." He straightens up, and a wisp of smoke drifts up from the map. "He quite likes the gardens, and does not plan to move any time soon, so feel free to take your time."

And then he's gone, and Martha is left staring at empty space.

It's a trap, it has to be.

But she has no other lead.

 

*

 

It's a twenty minute drive to the sanitarium, and the skies get steadily darker as she gets closer.

Although the gun she had used in the Year That Never Was had been a ruse and entirely functionless, UNIT had spent years reworking the design. The different vials are still needed, each filled with a different compound, and together they all react to create a bullet.

Martha parks the car, and locks all the vials into place. She takes a centering breath -- no turning back. She steps out of the car, and follows the signs around to the gardens.

The Devil is a man who looks scarcely older than her, dressed in a pristine white suit. He looks her up and down as she strides into the clearing. "You have come a long way," he observes. "I must say, I am impressed."

Martha raises the gun, and she shoots the Devil.

She shoots Lucifer.

He takes a step back at the impact, red blossoming around the bullet hole in his crisp white suit. He brushes his hand over the area, and the blood disappears under his touch. "It was a good try," he tells her. There's a sad smile on his face. "But I'm sorry, there's nothing else you can do."

This, Martha thinks, is when the Doctor should arrive.

"Goodbye, Martha Jones."


End file.
